POL. Ah, how am I insulted and destroyed!
Yet shall ye never from this hollow rock
Escape triumphant, O ye things of nought:
For in my station rooted, where this cleft
Opens a door, will I spread forth my hands
And stop your passage!
CHOR. Ha! what means these outcries,
O Cyclops?
POL. I am ruined.
CHOR. You appear
To have much been abused.
POL. Deplorably.
CHOR. When fuddled, did you fall ’mid burning coals?
POL. Noman hath ruined me.
CHOR. To you then no one
Hath offered any wrong.
POL. These lids hath Noman
Deprived of sight.
CHOR. You therefore are not blind.
POL. Would thou couldst see as little.
CHOR. How can no man
Put out your eye?
POL. Thou art disposed to jest.
But where is Noman?
CHOR. He is nowhere, Cyclops.
POL. That execrable stranger, mark me well,
Is author of my ruin, who produced
The fraudful draught, and burned my visual nerves.
CHOR. Wine is invincible.
POL. By all the gods,
Answer me I conjure you; did they fly,
Or are they here within?
CHOR. They on the top
Of yonder rock which screens them from your reach,
In silence take their stand.
POL. But on which side?
CHOR. Your right.
POL. Where, where?
CHOR. Upon that very rock.
Have you yet caught them?
POL. To mischance succeeds
Mischance; I have fallen down and cracked my skull.
CHOR. They ’scape you now.
POL. Ye misinformed me sure;
They are not here.
CHOR. I say not that they are.
POL. Where then?
CHOR. They wheel around you on your left.
POL. Ah me! I am derided, ye but mock
At my affliction.
CHOR. They are there no longer:
But Noman stands before you.
POL. O thou villain,
Where art thou?